


Friends in Far Off Places

by orphan_account



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Aman (Tolkien), Athrabeth Finrod ah Andreth, Background Het, Elf/Human Relationship(s), Family Feels, Father-Daughter Relationship, Gen, Meddling Valar, Middle Earth with Technology, Modern Era, Modern Middle Earth, Next Generation, Post-Canon, Quenya Names, References to Citizen Kane, References to Greek/Roman Mythology, References to the Beatles, Seventh Age, The Valar, Valinor, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-03
Updated: 2017-06-03
Packaged: 2018-11-08 08:33:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11077887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Finrod's elder daughter develops an unorthodox hobby... Mannish technology





	Friends in Far Off Places

Many of the Elves new to Aman came to Antaro, at his sister's behest, to inform Findaráto of the goings-on in Middle-earth, and in their youth his daughters Atandilmë and Anganárel had listened to these accounts too, out of idle curiosity.

By the Seventh Age, Atandilmë’s curiosity had become less idle.

She had gotten into the habit of buying relics from Middle-earth off those who rejected them once they stepped off their ships and onto Eldamar, and once she had them, she delighted in taking them apart, putting them back together, and marveling at their brilliance to anyone who stayed still long enough to listen. “It is astonishing what Men have created,” she said to her father while she played with a “CD player” that an Elf had sold to her gladly. “Fëanáro, in all his genius and in his secrecy, could not equal what Men have done through centuries of perseverance and cooperation. The palantíri cannot equal the genius of _cell phones_!”

Findaráto could not disagree, but he was concerned about Atandilmë’s fascination all the same.

“She fiddles with her Mannish devices more than she attends to her own work,” he complained to his father during one of their walks beneath the trees of Eldamar.

Arafinwë was not sympathetic. “Do not complain to me about a stubborn and willful child, let alone a stubborn and willful _daughter_. You cannot will the argument that will follow."

"Artanis was very different!"

His father would not hear it. "Be glad that Atandilmë has not led a rebellion against the Valar! I cannot say the same of my own children.”

Findaráto had no reply to this, and Eärwen seconded her husband when he complained to her. “As you troubled us, so too must your children trouble you,” she told him, and Findaráto was sent from his parents’ home bearing letters and gifts for their beloved daughter-in-law and grandchildren.

 

Findaráto had further cause for concern upon returning to Antaro.

Telperinquar had been reembodied centuries ago and subsequently sworn himself to Findaráto rather than reunite his own following, but he had rarely emerged from his forge since. There he forged ploughshares and railings and doorknobs, even horseshoes on occasion, but he never crafted another piece of jewelry.

Atandilmë had showed no fondness for her second cousin before, so it surprised Findaráto when he walked into his home and discovered his firstborn speaking intently with the last remaining heir of the Kinslayers. The pair of them were discussing _software_ and _ram_ and _digital piracy_ , and Findaráto had no idea what any of it meant.

“Findaráto!” Amarië cried in gladness to see him, and her smile was desperate and forced.

His visit to his parents had not been particularly long, so they did not invite his people to feast his return. His wife had instead arranged a small family dinner with their daughters and the younger’s husband and children — and Telperinquar, whose conversation with Atandilmë could not be interrupted.

Her niece and nephew kept asking her questions to delay their aunt, but Atandilmë answered them in the briefest terms before she and Telperinquar finished supper and headed into the solar with a pile of notes half Atandilmë’s height.

“She had better not marry him!” Amarië declared once they were gone.

Findaráto secretly hoped the same. He did not dislike Telperinquar, who had never usurped his kingdom, but he did not want him as a son-in-law.

“I doubt it will come to that,” Anganárel said. “Atandilmë likes Telperinquar well enough, I grant you, but she only likes him for his intelligence and his usefulness. Her affection for him will dry up once they have completed this project of theirs.”

Anganárel had always understood her sister well, in spite of their many differences, and Atandilmë had been known to confide in her even when she would not unburden herself to her parents or friends.

“What _is_ this project?” Amarië asked.

Anganárel faltered. “She called it the _internet,_ but I could not follow her explanation. She made it sound like a library and a post office combined, yet it is somehow the size of a book itself.”

Findaráto and Amarië exchanged looks. Some devices brought from Middle-earth were absurdly small for their purposes (and their purposes, as Atandilmë explained them, were themselves strange), but Findaráto could not imagine Atandilmë _recreating_ such things.

There was a reason people were willing to sell them to her in the first place!

The subject changed: Anganárel’s children were eager to tell their grandfather about their education, and he listened intently to their news and gently explained what they did not understand.

If Findaráto thought that an end to the matter, he was proven wrong.

Amarië did not forget their discussion. She waited until they were alone that night to revisit it. “Perhaps you ought to speak with her, my love,” she said. “Atandilmë is too _Noldorin_ for me to understand, sometimes, and you, of all people, understand the consequences of _rash invention._ ”

Her implication was obvious.

“Atandilmë is not the next Fëanáro.”

“No one thought _Fëanáro_ was the first Fëanáro until he drew a sword on your uncle Nolofinwë,” Amarië said darkly, and Findaráto winced at the memory.

“I will speak with her,” he agreed, and he swore to do so the next day.

 

Her father found Atandilmë in her forge, drawing figures and making notes in a messy scrawl that would surely pain Rúmil, Fëanáro, and Daeron in equal measure. Music played, something sad but spirited, and Findaráto traced the source of the sound to a small, metal square that he did not recognize.

He knew that Atandilmë had bought musical devices off of new arrivals, but he had not imagined this.

“What is this song called?”

Atandilmë answered in a Mannish tongue (English, he believed) before explaining in their own language. “In Quenya, it would be called “In My Life.””

She sang a few verses in harmony with the recording. Atandilmë possessed a strong and fair voice that could do service to the most beautiful songs of the Noldor and the Vanyar, but it failed her now. Hers was weak and reedy in comparison to the ocean of feeling that the Man’s held.

Findaráto wondered, not for the first time, if he had started this situation all those years ago by naming her "Friend of Man." Amarië suspected as much. Perhaps he should have come up with a name to honor his parents or his sister, or his in-laws, but Findaráto had missed —

The King of Antaro cleared his throat. “You have been industrious in my absence!”

“For longer than that. I did progress quickly in your absence, but I had a revelation before you went to visit my grandparents. That was the key.”

He nodded. “I should have followed your progress more carefully.”

“You would not have understood it, Father. You are a stonemason. _Telperinquar_ barely understands it, and he has made a study of it.”

“One could almost take offense.”

Atandilmë huffed, but her smile was brilliant. “You know what I mean! I will be able to teach it to you (and everyone else) when I have a better understanding myself, but for now I can only explain how to _use_ these tools, not how to create them.”

The song changed, and this one was obviously a favorite of hers. She hummed along, and Findaráto did not wish to disturb her in her industry any longer. He excused himself.

“I spoke to her,” he told Amarië, “and I do not think there is any harm in it.”

Her shoulders dropped. “Thank the Valar!” 

 

It would have been convenient had the Valar agreed with Findaráto and accepted Amarië’s thanks, but they did not. Lord Aulë and Lord Tulkas paid him a visit mere days after Atandilmë caused a stir by singing a song by a group of people called “the Smiths” at a guild meeting. The news could not be contained, for craftsmen were nature's gossips.

Aulë did not waste time before informing Findaráto of their business. “The other Valar and I are concerned by your daughter Atandilmë’s work in Mannish craftsmanship. This interest, we believe, is unnatural.”

That Findaráto could easily refute.

“Atandilmë is not the first member of our family to become interested in Men. I was once friend to many of them, and my brother Aikanáro and my cousin Itarildë fell in love with members of that race. Lúthien, too. No evils befell them but those that were caused by Moringotto and others.”

Himself included. He was the one who counseled Aikanáro not to marry Andreth. Whenever he thought of his brother now, he remembered Aikanáro’s pain and Andreth’s grief, and he wondered if he could have saved them both by encouraging their romance. They might have had a great fate too.

“She does not love a Man, though, Prince Findaráto. She loves their works, which have caused great evils. My wife in particular is distraught at the horrors that have been done in Middle-earth.”

“But Atandilmë has committed no horrors, my lord. She has caused no more damage to Aman than any other smith has. If Lady Yavanna wishes to correct the ills of Mannish technology, she must go to Middle-earth and confront Men. My daughter is innocent of _that_.”

Aulë looked aghast at the suggestion, and Findaráto reminded himself that he was no longer a rebel.

He spoke again before Aulë could, in tones of apology. “I am sorry, my lords, but you had better go to my daughter with your concerns. I am her father still, but she is no child who is answerable to me.”

Aulë’s expression was stern but gentle. “We already did. She refused.”

Findaráto stared at the Valar. He might have rebelled against the Valar in his youth, but Atandilmë had never spoken against them. She had shown all due respect to Aulë before. “My daughter has never been _biddable,_ but she is hardly _recalcitrant_. She must have misunderstood your meaning, my lord. She would not — She would not refuse such a request.”

“She understood me, Prince Findaráto. ‘The Valar cannot forbid me from invention, no more than they can forbid me from imitation. Perhaps you are only envious that there is a craft that cannot be learnt from you or your pet Elves and Dwarves,’ she said to me.”

His heart refused to believe it. That did not sound like his daughter, though it did sound familiar.

Had he ignored the signs as his grandfather had?

“Do not fret, Findaráto,” Tulkas said. “It is only Aulë and Yavanna who think ill of Atandilmë’s work. I think it is marvelous! I met many Men during the War of Wrath, and they are more honorable than many want to believe. Why should they be judged by Ar-Pharazôn when Elves are not judged by Maeglin? Atandilmë is a good girl with common sense, and she only wants to learn from her long-sundered kin.”

Aulë turned on him. “Why did you come if only to disagree with me?”

“Someone has to, and Eonwë and Olórin have not the influence.”

The Smith might have said more if Findaráto weren’t in the room, but as he was, he could only say, “We will leave you to consider what we have said.”

Findaráto did consider what Aulë had said, and he considered what Tulkas had said.

 

Supper that night was quiet. Findaráto was consumed with consideration, and Amarië, who knew of his visitors but not their purpose, was too anxious to voice her questions.

Atandilmë did not speak either, and that made her parents even more anxious.

Anganárel and her family dined in their own home. Perhaps Findaráto should have invited them tonight, but he had not realized it would be so uncomfortable.

Amarië excused herself when she had finished eating, and Findaráto was left alone with his daughter. He had to speak quickly before she too excused herself, so he blurted out the first thought that came to mind.

“Lord Aulë and Lord Tulkas came to speak with me,” he said.

“Of course they did.” Atandilmë laughed scornfully. “It is sad that Aulë cannot love innovation anymore, but his issues are not my concern. I have done no harm, and I will do no harm. I do not plan to visit Middle-earth, even. I only want to understand these crafts!”

“Is Telperinquar in agreement with you?”

She shrugged. “He says so, but I do not know his heart.”

Amarië would be relieved to hear it, but he could not end his interrogation there.

“You must admit —”

“I will admit nothing,” she said dismissively. “Nor I will stop. If we quarrel over this, Father, I will remove myself from your home and go elsewhere.”

Findaráto did not wish for _that_. “We will not argue about this. I have held my own council during the whole of this, and I will hold my own council until the end. I only ask that you be careful and thoughtful.”

Atandilmë smiled. “I will, Papa. You needn’t worry about me. Even if I do become misled, Telperinquar will not allow me to fall to evil as he once did.”

She did not leave afterwards as he expected her to, and he found himself saying, “This has been difficult for me. It reminds me of history I would rather be forgotten, if only because the memories pain me and I cannot forget the pain and remember the joy. Men can, you know. I always found that wonderful.”

“It is. It still is.”

She leaned over and embraced him, and Findaráto buried his nose into her hair, which retained the smell of oil and flame long after she had washed it from her person.

 

Atandilmë did not abandon her work, no matter how many expressed their disapproval in strident terms — and the number of people doing so grew. She quarreled viciously with her grandfather and her uncle Angaráto, and she stopped speaking to Nerdanel (a dear friend of hers) for reasons Findaráto never learned but could guess. Their cheerful and kind daughter grew silent and short-tempered. Findaráto tried to comfort her, but the only confidence he could pry from her was “I am tired of being compared to Fëanáro!”

Yet she continued to defy the Valar and everyone else, and the only reason she did not defy Findaráto too was because he refused to denounce his own daughter. Amarië had broached the subject once, but his alarm at the remark was unworthy of him and unkind to her. She had only wanted to ensure that he would not.

“Whatever she does, our disapproval must be private,” she concluded, and Findaráto agreed heartily.

His sister’s arrival, in the midst of this chaos, was sudden and unexpected. Galadriel preferred for people to come to her, and she had visited Antaro only when courtesy demanded it of her. Furthermore, she had not sent word of her coming before she suddenly appeared on horseback in their courtyard.

“How is Celeborn? And your children? And your grandchildren?” he asked her. He knew he was blathering, but he was bewildered. Bewilderment was a state he did not enjoy.

“All are well,” Galadriel answered with a raised eyebrow and a sense of sisterly superiority. “Celeborn and I are not fighting, so you can rest easy on that score. I came to see Atandilmë.”

That was his fear. “Do not attempt to counsel her, I implore you! You are wise, but she is stubborn. She will not fear losing your good opinion, not after she became estranged from our father and Angaráto.”

“Do you think me a fool? I come to offer her my support.”

“You do?”

“Of course I have come to support my niece! I have heard those tawdry comparisons to Fëanáro, but no one who knows Atandilmë could suspect of her such arrogance and willful disobedience. If she disobeys, it is because she is confident of her rightness, and I have no reason to suspect her misled in this case. Why should she not research Mannish inventions? She cannot equal the damage they did, not even if she sought to emulate them in that.” She added, as though this settled the matter: “Celeborn disapproves because he fears she will poison the Blessed Realm as the Mortals poisoned Middle-earth, but he will not speak against her.”

Celeborn’s disapproval was a greater balm to him than Galadriel’s outright support. Celeborn had refused to speak well of Men ever since his arrival on Aman, except those he had known and respected in ancient days, and the newly arrived Elves all seconded his assessment of what had befallen Middle-earth since this “Industrial Revolution." If he would not condemn Atandilmë, it was because he genuinely thought that her actions were not harmful.

“Atandilmë is in her forge,” he said. “She usually is, nowadays. She is running a routine system check today, she said, so I am sure she will not mind an interruption from a beloved aunt.”

“Is Eldalótë here?” Galadriel asked wickedly, but she left after a brief farewell.

Atandilmë’s good cheer returned with her aunt to bolster her, and she spoke more openly of her work with her family. Amarië was so relieved to see her smiling and talking with them again that the faithful Vanya dared to say, “I look forward to seeing your work completed, daughter.”

“I doubt it ever will be,” Atandilmë admitted modestly, “but I can show you part of it. There will be a public exhibition as soon as Telperinquar and I find a suitable site. Do you know that Men record plays? They do it in a very odd and unnatural way, but it is an easy way to show many people a piece of my work at once.”

“We will attend, of course,” Amarië declared.

 

It was a public exhibition, so Findaráto needed only to reserve enough tickets for everyone. He invited his parents and his younger brother as well as Nerdanel, and they agreed to come in the hopes that this would end their estrangement with Atandilmë.

The crowd was larger than Findaráto had expected, but he should not have been surprised. Atandilmë and her work had been the object of gossip for decades now, and many wished to see what she had done.

In the crowd stood Tuor, as distinct and as exotic as ever with his beard and his wrinkles and the strands of grey in his hair. Findaráto walked over to him and Itarildë, and they embraced in greeting. Tuor could never replace Bëor or Andreth in his heart, but he was a good friend to Findaráto all the same.

“You must be proud,” Tuor said.

Findaráto did not know if he had cause to be yet. “I am.”

Tuor laughed. “I am too, and I had nothing to do with it! People refuse to tell me anything about Men now without first telling me about the world wars and nuclear disasters, and I never spent much time with my people in Middle-earth except for when I was enslaved by Easterlings. But I cornered Atandilmë, and she promised to update me whenever she had news. It will be a comfort, I think. Finally.”

“We look forward to it,” Itarildë added. They excused themselves to go speak with their son Eärendil and his wife Elwing, who had already paid their compliments to Atandilmë but not Telperinquar. Elrond had, however, and his mother had seen him at it and scowled.

Findaráto joined the crowd in marveling over the lights in the theater, which were wholly unlike Fëanárian lamps, yellow instead of blue and adjustable besides. He heard Telperinquar tell his mother and grandmothers that the play needed to be shown in near-darkness as he walked past, and he reminded himself to ask Atandilmë about it afterwards when she had less demands upon her.

He could not ask her now. Atandilmë was in the midst of a crowd of Elves, answering questions as quickly as she could, and she looked happy and proud and relaxed. Findaráto could not interrupt her now.

Telperinquar did not share his qualms.

“It’s time,” he said, and he called for everyone to please be seated as Atandilmë went to stand in front of the silver sheet that covered one wall.

Atandilmë had never embraced her status as a princess of the House of Finwë, so absorbed was she in her books as a child and in her work as an adult, but she did not appear embarrassed or uncomfortable as she stood before them all then. She stood tall and straight, and she smiled. “Welcome to our exhibition! This is a recorded play called _Citizen Kane,_ and it is considered the best that Men have ever made. There is little to say about it that you cannot learn from watching it, so let’s start the show!”

Telperinquar pressed a button. The lights of the theater dimmed, and Atandilmë slid into the seat beside her father as the play began.

 _Citizen Kane_ was a story that only Men could tell, one about wealth and lust and mortality. Findaráto had never forgotten those tales, told in whispers or with rolled eyes, but seeing it play out in black and white and gray in a land with only one Man made him feel as though he had. Findaráto wept, and he looked around for others who did as well — Tuor, Elrond and his wife, his father Eärendil, Lady Mithrellas, even King Thingol.

(Nerdanel cried too, and maybe it was not entirely a Mannish story.)

The film ended with a sled aflame, and Findaráto thought, _We are not the flames but the moths. Men are the ones who burn too bright and too short, and they burn out while we flap our wings in distress._ Perhaps he should have known it all along, but he had not always been so wise.

Perhaps Atandilmë had seen it in her plays and her songs, and she had only met one Man in all her life.

The film ended, and the lights turned back on. Around him people discussed what they had seen in quiet voices as they rose and left, but he could not stand. He heard many compliment Atandilmë as they went, and she reminded each that she had not made the play, only the means to display it, and in that she had done so by imitation and not by invention.

“Accept a compliment!” Nerdanel demanded.

Amarië kissed Findaráto's brow before leaving in silence with Anganárel and her husband and children. She knew that Findaráto and Atandilmë needed to be alone.

They were the only ones in the theater, and Findaráto had tears in his eyes still and his daughter’s hand in his. All he could think to say was “I wish you could have met your aunt.”

Atandilmë smiled sadly. He had only spoken of Andreth once with his firstborn, when she asked why her uncle Aikanáro would not be reembodied, but she knew how dearly Findaráto loved her and how much he respected her wisdom. Atandilmë and Andreth would have loved each other too, and they would have debated passionately on every subject possible.

“Thank you, Father.” She reached into her bag and pulled out a book. “I am glad you enjoyed the play, but I have something more for you. I had this printed and bound for you. There was a society of Men called the Greeks —”

“I know of them.” Many Elves had told him of the Greek civilization back when Findaráto used to corner new arrivals on the docks at Alqualondë, and he had enjoyed hearing of their philosophers.

Atandilmë ignored his interruption. “They lived a long time ago, by Mannish standards, and in many ways they were as wise as they were ignorant. Their mythology interests me as a scholar of Men, but I thought you might wish to read it as their friend. There are stories of people who journeyed into the underworld to rescue their lovers and tales of great journeys, but I marked one you might like to read particularly.”

Findaráto touched the bookmark, which bore Atandilmë’s personal standard — an owl wearing a square cap. It was an affectation that amused Telperinquar as much as it confused everyone else.

“It is about a god called Prometheus.”


End file.
